


Addenda and Sundries

by GerbilofTriumph



Category: King's Quest (Video Games)
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, additional tags incoming as ficlets are added, angst with happy endings, mild descriptions of injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:20:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28051545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GerbilofTriumph/pseuds/GerbilofTriumph
Summary: A home for any and all ficlets, prompt fills, and other delightfully (choco-chip-filled) bite sized segments. What-ifs, maybes, and alternate takes on Graham's adventures throughout his years in Daventry.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	1. Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill: "When was the last time you slept?" with Graham and the Royal Guards.
> 
> Acorn's blanket borrowed from GoddessofTechnology's [Perfect Shadows](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26552197)

Daventry castle glittered at night. Torches flickered in the hallways, fireplaces crackled merrily, candles cast their warm glow in the windows. Winter or spring: it didn’t matter. The place looked like an enchanted music box, especially at a distance, almost every night. For warmth, for safety.

It wasn’t safe feeling anymore.

The torches were lit, but it was so the guards could see as they were running from place to place. The fireplaces were glowing, but it was to keep the injured comfortable. The candles illuminated frantically scrawled reports, kept notes moving from place to place to place, circling around the castle like white and black birds. Some had stamps of approval on them, sort of: Graham’s signet ring with the Daventry crest frequently missed or barely touched the little pools of hot wax in his haste and distress. Most were just implicitly taken to be official. Theoretically you could verify the validity of them with No1—if you could find him.

Kyle had no desire to find him. Kyle had no desire to leave this room. No one was going to pull him from Larry’s side, no one at all. No1 had looked at his face, looked at the crumpled, magically mangled body tangled in Kyle’s arms, and released him from his duties for the time being—“You’re on call,” he said sharply. And then, more gently, “Don’t worry about being called,” before he’d rushed away, leaving the nurses and guards to help the two fallen knights.

At the time, it had all been lights and noise and shouts. The infirmary was a good distance from all the chaos—it was almost too still. Larry was too still. Kyle twisted his fingers together, staring at his friend’s slack body and trying not to tremble.

Larry’s breathing was ragged, and he hadn’t opened his eyes once since Manannan had snapped his fingers and sent green lightning zinging their way. Kyle had felt a sharp pain rattling through his armor that had taken his breath away. But it hadn’t taken his breath completely away like it had Larry’s.

Larry, who had taken the main blow, turned into it, protecting king and country and Kyle. Larry had collapsed, and Kyle with him, and Kyle could only watch helplessly, paralyzed and hurt, as the wizard drifted silently through the castle halls. It wasn’t hard to guess where he was going. It wasn’t hard to guess what he was planning. Something terribly tormenting and ruinous. The actual deed—stealing the baby prince Alexander from his cradle while the king and queen screamed helplessly for him to stop, magically bound and unable to look away— _that_ was surprising, but only in that sort of raw numb horror sort of way.

Manannan left people broken in his wake. No3 was just as wrecked as Larry, and they weren’t the only two battered and broken and desperate. The castle had drawn itself up to defend its royal family, and the castle had failed.

Magic. Most people used magic to clean their kettles or keep the dust off the mantle or maybe scrub wine stains out of dress shirts. Not viciously shatter bodies beneath metal armor. Using magic was more trouble than it was worth. It was easier just to take a rag to the mantle yourself rather than gather together the weird ingredients and say the right words in exactly the right order. A backfired spell was nasty: no one ever really considered its value as a weapon on this scale.

Now, of course, everyone was considering it. Now, when it was too late.

Kyle’s head slumped on his arms, and he breathed deeply, in tandem with Larry. It sort of felt like if he could match Larry’s breathing, he could keep Larry alive. Could wake him up. Kyle sagged further, blearily watching the candle on the bedside table flicker.

“It’s still pretty as a music box,” he whispered. “The whole castle’s lit up. I wish you could see.”

“When was the last time you slept?” The words were a croaky mumble.

Kyle leapt (tripped, stumbled, caught in the sheets and his own foggy mind) to his feet and whirled (flailed) into a bow. “King Graham! Oh, stars, Graham! What’s going on? Are you…?”

The king looked hollowed out. His hair was tangled flyaways, his eyes ringed with dark exhaustion, his chin scruffy with unkempt shadow. He was wearing pajamas—the same ones he’d been wearing during the attack, or had he bothered to change in the time between Alexander’s kidnapping and now? He had a blanket (possibly the one Acorn had made for him after another horrible scheme by Manannan choked the kingdom) wrapped around his shoulders in place of his cloak.

“You. Haven’t slept,” Graham managed. He staggered forward, and blinked exhaustedly at Larry, still motionless on the bed, bandages holding him together. “Neither have I,” he said, unnecessarily. “I insisted Valanice sleep. Warm milk always sends her off, even now. I should…I….”

“Please, Sire, take my chair,” Kyle said nervously. He’d never seen Graham like this. Didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do, not with Larry, his voice of reason, lying there, his voice silenced (not forever, couldn’t be forever).

“No. I can’t. I just…” he scrubbed his hands through his curly hair, which only ruffled it up into wilder directions. “Please, sit. I know I’m not the only one suffering tonight. I need…” he sighed. “Someone around here should get some healthy, deep sleep.” He plucked the blanket off his shoulders and dropped it around Kyle’s. “It won’t be me. I think it should be you. Please.”

Kyle’s fingers locked around the blanket edge, and he started to tug it off, but Graham stopped him. There was a strangled half-cry hidden deep in the king’s throat, an edge of pain and fear that made everything he said scratchy: “Please, keep it. At least, for now. I think…” he started to smile, just a little bit, and his haunted eyes brightened, “I think…at least tonight, you’ll be okay.”

He nodded down at the bed, and Kyle, his heart in his mouth, turned, and saw Larry blinking in the flickering candlelight. Not long after that, with Graham’s blanket draped over them both, the knights slept, hands wrapped together like they would never let go.


	2. Chamomile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill: "When was the last time you slept?" with Royal Guards Numbers One and Two.
> 
> (it's a good prompt, lbr)

_Dear Mrs. Cracker,_

_We hope this letter finds you well. Your son, our King Graham, left unexpectedly a week ago. Has he arrived on a visit? Or has he, as I fear, been ~~kidnapped~~ ~~kingnapped~~ ~~gone on a lovely vacation without telling us~~_

Royal Guard Number One crumpled the letter and chucked it at the wastebasket. It pinged off the pile of other letters already spilling onto the floor and rolled somewhere near the door. His office was usually never less than impeccable. But at the moment his desk was covered in ink splatters and torn paper scraps and failed letters and half-scripted orders and an assortment of differently designed mugs with varying amounts of forgotten tea in each. The one at his elbow with the Daventry crest stamped on it was still full to the brim. Untouched and—he felt the sides—yes, completely cold. He couldn’t remember when he’d gotten it. He hoped it had at least been today.

If he sent that letter, Mrs. Cracker would probably come to Daventry, and then she’d probably go missing too, and then all the Crackers would be out of the cupboard. Castle. Whatever. But at the same time, he had to ask her if Graham had gone back to Llewdor. He had to be sure. There were so many things that could have happened, and he had to check each possibility off. One by one, the possibilities were narrowing. But no matter what the cause was, there was one result.

Graham was gone.

Royal Guard Number Three had come tearing into the kitchens that rainy evening, and she had screamed, “King Graham’s gone!” The room had been perfectly still and silent other than the sound of water dripping off her armor and puddling around her boots.

“I’m sorry, repeat that?” No1 said, carefully setting down his hot cocoa.

She was out of breath and frightened, and she could only gasp: “The village. Empty. No one. No Graham. Gone.”

_Gone._

And the broken glass and churned mud she’d found in the village suggested something dark had happened. Something dreadful. He had dispatched guards immediately, and they were combing the forests for clues, searching everywhere in widening circles. Some of them were still out on patrol, hadn’t come back. He feared the worst.

No1 collapsed back into his office chair, rubbing his eyes. Exhaustion was creeping over his shoulders like a ragged blanket. But he couldn’t sleep. He had to find the king, had to run the kingdom in his absence, had to prepare for _any_ eventuality, no matter how terrible. And some of the eventualities were indeed terrible.

There was a hesitant knock at the door. No1 grabbed his helmet and yanked it on. It hid the dark circles under his eyes, rings as numerous as the inside of a fallen tree, circles as puffy and bruised and black as a novice on the training field.

“Enter,” he announced only once the helmet was on straight and the feather perfectly fluffed.

Royal Guard Number Two poked his head around the door, clinging to the doorframe. He looked haggard, too. “Sir?”

“Ah. Report?”

“The report is that there’s nothing to report, sir. Three and Four are still out, but Kyle, Larry, and Olfie found no traces of him or anyone suspicious to the south whatsoever.”

“I suspected as such.” No1 felt his feather sagging and he flicked it back into place. He stared at the table, wondering where he’d stuffed the instructions for searching the next quadrant.

He realized he’d been sitting staring in silence for quite some time only when Number Two, who was still in the doorway, said: “Sir? Permission to speak freely?”

“Granted.”

“When was the last time you slept?”

“De-granted.”

“Oh, come on. I just want a quick answer.”

No1 leaned back in the chair and thought for a moment. “Last night,” he said, firmly.

“For how long?” No2 asked.

Silence.

“Was it more than an hour?”

_Longer_ silence.

“Ken?”

“I de-granted permission to speak freely, Number Two. First names are only for freely speaking. And, technically, Addenda 411 says _—_ ”

“Please. You _always_ yell at me if I haven’t gotten enough sleep.”

“You’re my responsibility. As is King Graham, wherever he is. Oh, _stars_.” He sagged in his chair for a split second before catching himself and straightening back up. His feather stayed limp and he had to flick it back up again.

“We’ll find him,” No2 insisted. “We’re good at our jobs. You know we are. You trained most of the regiment yourself. Please. We have our orders, and we’ll follow them through. The best thing you can do right now is sleep. At least until the next results come back.”

“And if the results are bad?” No1 snapped bitterly.

“Then you’ll be a little more awake to deal with them.”

That, at least, made him pause. He looked down at his desk, at the avalanche of papers, at the half drafted letters and the frantically scripted orders. At the unfinished ideas and the empty reports.

“Let me bring you a cup of chamomile, that always helps,” No2 continued. And then he looked at the forest of tea mugs crowding the desk, winced, and said, “And this time you’re going to drink it.”

“Is that an order?” No1 asked, and he pulled his helmet off, revealing the exhaustion in his face. “You’re not high enough of a rank to give me orders.”

“I’m second in command. I’ve got some abilities. But I’d rather just call it a suggestion. From a friend.”

Again, No1 hesitated. There were so many things to do, so many eventualities to prepare for, a missing king to find and a country to protect and…and his eyes were burning and his arms were heavy and his heart hurt. “You _promise_ you’ll wake me up if you hear anything?”

No2 nodded sharply. “Roommates’ honor. If you want, you can even use the couch in Graham’s office. Quicker access to everything from there.”

No1 stood, and his knees wobbled. He leaned against the desk, hoping No2 hadn’t noticed his momentary weakness and knowing he had. “Well. Perhaps a brief nap.” ( _kidnap—no, stop, don’t think about it now_ ). “I’ll be in the King’s office,” he said loftily, as though he’d come up with the idea himself.

“Here,” No2 said, and reached behind the door. He had a soft red blanket in his hands, which he offered to his captain.

No1 glared at him with deep suspicion. “Did you plan this?”

“Of course not. I’ve got the chamomile steeped and ready, by the way. Should be a good temperature by now. It’s in Graham’s office, on his desk.”

“Ah.”


	3. Silent Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill: "Here, let me help you," with Graham and Royal Guard Number One, that may have gone off to do its own thing in the weeds, because it's an AU of an AU. 
> 
> Specifically, a "Manny brags upfront to Graham about his successful scheming in Chapter Two rather than having it be an endchapter reveal" AU, doubly AU'd with someone else rescuing Graham from his rather dark Chapter Two plight. AUception.

Manny appeared at the underground cell often to gloat, bragging about his success at stealing the king of Daventry and locking him away so easily. Graham was starting to lose patience with it. He needled the little knight as best he could in return, with sharp comments and bland observations and a general lack of submission. Manny was apparently expecting blubbering, begging, or praise for his cleverness. Or something along those lines. Something that appreciated his brilliance and success. His temper grew blacker and blacker, less than pleased with the attitude of his prisoner, but Graham didn’t care.

Today, some unknown period of time after his capture, Graham was especially bored, sick of staring at his cell wall in silence. He opened with a mild, insulting lobby, just a light one, to see what the reaction would be. Blithely unaware how close he had pushed Manny to the edge where anything could tip him over. “Back for another _short_ visit?” Lazy, annoyed, cold, frustrated, tired. Wrong, so, so wrong. He would regret this moment, regret his words, regret, regret, _regret_.

“Still going to be rude, I see?”

“Still not king, I see,” Graham said apathetically, leaning against the stone table. What else could Manny even do at this point, anyway? _(Regret, oh, he would regret that thought.)_

“Yes, still rude. That’s what I thought. It’s unbecoming of a king to have such a big mouth. It's going to get you in trouble. You should learn to hold your tongue in the presence of betters. I can help with that.” And Manny snapped his fingers.

Goblins poured in. Graham scrambled to the other side of the table, as though that barrier could protect him. They grabbed at him, and he had nowhere to go in this tiny dark cell. Water splashed from the puddles, drenching them, as they struggled, as they wrenched Graham’s arms behind his back. He yelled, begging them to _please, don’t, not this_. The familiar, horrible ropes pinned his upper arms, looped around his wrists. It wasn’t tight, he dimly recognized, not like it could be, but it was enough.

“Manny, please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything. Please, please, don’t,” Graham pleaded. Worse than last time, they were adding _more_. His knees, his ankles. Pressure against his boots. Their hands gripping, tugging, holding—he couldn’t get away.

Manny stood by, watching, hands clasped, and then he reached out, tangling his fingers in Graham’s hair. “Oh, also, Graham?” And he _yanked_. Graham’s head snapped back and he yelped. “Shut up,” Manny snarled, and he shoved a wad of fabric between Graham’s teeth. Graham twisted, horror gripping his gut, but the goblins were holding his head still, and Manny dragged another piece of fabric around Graham’s mouth, pinning his tongue, tying it off smartly, knots catching and pulling strands of Graham’s curly hair.

The goblins carried the squirming, kicking, struggling, bound and gagged king to the bare mattress and dropped him inelegantly on it. He thrashed, yanking at the bonds, every frantic cry muffled under two layers of fabric, and the goblins silently trooped out, glancing at him with something like uncertain hesitation before ducking beneath Manny’s angry glare. The door slammed behind them, the padlock clicked back into place, and Graham curled into as small a ball as he could, whimpering, his heart thudding in his ears.

He could see the knots at his knees, at his ankles. Sturdy, not ones he could kick free. He tried to contort, to reach them, his fingers straining desperately, and his thighs cramped and he howled in frustration but no one was around to hear him, he could barely hear himself, and what would he do if his scrabbling fingers could reach the knots? He couldn’t see them while he was working at them, and even if he could free his legs, what then? His arms were still bound, and the door was still locked, and he was still deep, deep underground, away from his guards and his castle and his freedom. He felt nauseous, but with the gag he had to keep himself together.

Come on, Graham. Keep yourself together.

_Regret._

* * *

The royal guards were disentangling the goat—er, unicorn, from the chains, whispering nonsense words to keep the animal calm. It bleated at them, and they backed off nervously. No1 ignored them and hurried further down the hall, looking through each barred window. Giant rat. Empty. Empty. Crown.

_Crown._

Graham’s crown, on a stone table. No sign of Graham himself, but he was surely there, perhaps against the wall, perhaps chained like the goa— _unicorn_. No1 looked at the padlock on the door, then looked beyond the padlock to the embarrassingly splintery old wooden bar holding the door shut. Well. Easy enough. He swung his sword through it, and the rotten thing practically melted beneath his swing.

He burst in, eyes sweeping the tiny, damp room. It was gloomy and cold, the only illumination being odd little salamanders, which chirped at his intrusion and flared bright blue in defense. But they were enough to see by, when your eyes were used to the subterranean darkness.

Graham was lying on a bare mattress. His wrists were bound behind his back, and ropes squeezed his arms to his sides, and his knees and ankles were tied, too. A gag was shoved between his teeth. His eyes were closed, and he wasn’t moving, and No1’s stomach flipped upside down.

“Graham! Oh gods, no, Graham!” No1 dropped his sword, grabbed the king’s shoulders, and shook him, torn between being careful and desperate. Why hadn’t Graham reacted to the noise of the door breaking in? Was something wrong? Was he okay? Please, he had to be okay. Had to be. It was No1’s fault for failing to protect the king, and the worst possible thing had happened, and he felt positively sick. “Please, please, _please_ , Graham!”

The young man’s eyes flickered open. He groaned beneath the gag, and he blinked at No1 dizzily, and sudden realization blossomed across his features, and he yelped out something muffled and startled, and he struggled weakly.

No1 hooked a finger between Graham’s cheek and the fabric, yanking the gag down around his neck. Graham spat out another sodden lump of fabric that had pressed his tongue down and kept him quiet, and he coughed hard, a sharp, awful sound deep in his chest. He worked his jaw for a moment before rasping, in a creaky voice that surely hadn’t been used for a while, probably hadn’t tasted water recently: “How are you _here_?”

“Oh, Graham, gods, are you okay? How long have you been like this? Surely not...since...” _He’d been taken at least a week ago. Please, stars, not that long._

“No, no, nothing like that.” Graham tugged at the bindings in a practiced, halfhearted sort of way that suggested he’d been trying to free himself for ages and just given up, “I...I made Manny mad. He comes by, sometimes, and I...maybe didn’t think through what I said, last time. He said my big mouth was going to get me into trouble, and he’d help hold my tongue. It...it hasn’t been very long. I don’t think. I don’t...I don’t know.” No1 drew his dagger and sliced the ropes, and Graham hissed in pain. Gingerly, he rolled his shoulders, wincing. “Okay,” he breathed. “Long enough.”

Not tight enough or long enough to cause injury, No1 observed with undisguised relief—just horrible, horrible stiffness. He wouldn’t thank the goblins for any of this treatment, but at least they hadn’t done worse. He hastened to cut the ropes at knees and ankles, but Graham interrupted him, pulling him into a fierce hug. “I didn’t think I’d see anyone again,” Graham said, and No1 wasn’t now sure if his voice was raspy from lack of use or from suppressed tears.

The guard stayed kneeling on that thin mattress, supporting his king, gently rocking back and forth and whispering, “It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re safe. Everyone’s safe. We have everyone. All the villagers, the merchant. The goa—unicorn.” Blasted _unicorn._

“How did you know?” Graham mumbled against No1’s armor. “How did you know what happened, where we were?”

“You left a letter of resignation on your desk,” No1 said. “We knew something was wrong immediately. I’m sorry, Sire, but your handwriting just isn’t that nice.”

“Oh. Does this mean I can quit the calligraphy classes, since it saved us?”

“Not a chance, Your Majesty.” He cut the last knot and looked Graham up and down. “Can you stand?”

“Probably,” Graham said, rubbing his freed ankles. He tried, but his knees wobbled and then his ankles gave out and then he collapsed against the wall, sliding back onto the mattress. “Probably not.”

“Here, let me help you.” No1 scooped him up. He wriggled a hand free, picked Graham’s crown up off the table, and plonked it gently on the king’s head. “Hang on to that, and let’s get out of here. We’re going home.”

* * *

(The stage lights were blinding. Graham couldn’t see into the audience, but he knew there were people watching him. Waiting for him to speak his lines, to judge him if he couldn’t perform well enough. And he tried. He knew the lines, he did, but whenever he opened his mouth, nothing happened. The words melted away into the air before anyone could hear them. And words…he loved words, loved the merry dance of them on his tongue, loved speaking brightly and cleverly. Losing his words was bitter and chilled and broke his heart. But even if he couldn’t speak, he could hear perfectly fine: he heard laughter, ringing high and cold. Manny?

He stumbled back into the curtains to get away from the stage lights, from the spotlight pinning him, humiliating him. The curtains snapped free from their moorings, collapsing around him, on him, with a loud crash and clatter, and he struggled to get free but they just got heavier and heavier and more restrictive, and he opened his mouth to call for someone to help, but he couldn’t speak around the curtain. It was pressing against his mouth, against his tongue, muffling him, and he struggled and started screaming and it made no difference. He couldn’t get free. He couldn’t be heard.

The stage lights blew out, leaving him in pitch blackness, bound and unmoving and gagged and silent, which just meant that he could perfectly sense the panting growls of a dragon, its tail swishing through puddles. Stalking the room, stalking him, a prize snack trussed and waiting, and hands grabbed him to feed him to the dragon and—

—and—

—and someone was shaking him awake. The nightmare was shredding around him, and he could feel the dull ache in his shoulders from the ropes binding him and the press of the gag in his mouth, and he tried to moan words around the fabric, tried to tell the goblins to leave him alone, please, there couldn’t be anything else they wanted from him now, please just leave him alone. Alone to sleep. Even if his dreams weren’t much better.

But it wasn’t a goblin, he hazily realized. The hands gripping his shoulders were harder. Metallic. Armor, gauntlets? He blinked again, and a helmet swam into his blurry vision. Helmet. Red feather. Red…

Royal Guard Number One was shaking him, saying, “Please, please, _please,_ Graham!”

Graham yelped. “Shining stars! How are you here? What’s—” but the words were nothing, were mush, lost in the curtain—no, the gag—and he struggled, wrists straining behind his back for the umpteenth time, and No1 wriggled a finger between Graham’s bruised cheek and the fabric and pulled, the gag slipping down like the world’s ugliest necklace, and Graham spat out the lump of fabric Manny had shoved into his mouth…how long ago, no way to know, long enough. He inhaled sharply, and that made him cough.

This was just another dream, another desperate hope dredged from the hours lingering in silence, but everything hurt, so it had to be real, had to be real. “How are you _here_?” he asked, his unused voice raw and broken. No1 explained, as he cut the ropes at Graham’s shoulders, at his wrists, and he was free, and they were going _home_.)


	4. On the Cutting Room Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been fully captivated by [GoddessofTechnology's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessOfTechnology/pseuds/GoddessOfTechnology) short but oh so terrifying fic [Splitting Hairs,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28377942/chapters/69586542) and with permission I can share the continuation I cut together. 
> 
> Picking up immediately where the original story ends, Royal Knight Graham has been captured by a very, very sore loser who still hasn't forgotten how everything backfired on him in the Tourney, and Manny plans to take his loss out on the helpless knight piece by piece....

_It’s a puzzle, Graham. Find a way out._

_Don’t panic._

_Ahh._

_No, I said_ don’t _. Stop panicking, Graham._

_It’s fine. You’re fine. Pull yourself together and think. What’s here? What can you use?_

But Graham couldn’t tear his eyes away from the dull scissors winking in the flicking candlelight, from the strands of his own hair clumped and ugly and discarded on the table with the rest of the potion components. His throat was dry, and he couldn’t help but imagine what might get chopped off next. A malicious haircut would be the least of his losses if he couldn’t get free. This was just a warm up, Manny fiercely building terror with anticipation.

Being kidnapped and threatened with torture (especially by a former friend) wasn’t something Graham could have ever anticipated, but here he was. He’d fallen for a trap, he’d been knocked cold, he’d woken up in some cave tied to a chair with a bitter, scorned Manny standing over him, scissors and knives in hand and eager to start cutting.

Manny wasn’t here now, thankfully. He’d been called away by one of the goblins just before really getting into anything, but that meeting was probably going to be brief if the once-upon-an-almost-knight wanted to get back to his prize. Graham knew he didn’t have a lot of time. He had to figure out something, _now_.

He tugged ineffectually at his bonds, knowing the knots weren’t going to budge, searching the dark, dank room—at least as much as he could see. Anything directly behind him was a mystery; he couldn’t owl his head around to confirm he was alone, as much as he wanted to.

He mentally skipped over the bookcases, the ratty bed, the candles and torches—too far away or unlikely to be of any help. His best bet, he decided, would be to get to the table and try to use one of the many nasty looking knives to cut himself free. Which was in itself going to be almost impossible given how his wrists were tied to the chair arms, but he had to try. He had to. He’d figure it out as he went along. _It’s a puzzle, with all the pieces set out before you. You just have to put them together._

Cautiously, he tried rocking the chair back. The worst thing, the end to all his plans, would be if the chair was nailed to the floor. But it creaked and moved, his heels lifting as he balanced on the back chair legs and his toes. Cave floor, he thought with relief. Too much bother to secure anything to it. It was terribly heavy, though, and it thumped back down with a bang that made him freeze, waiting for someone to check on him. No one did. At least, he didn’t feel like anyone was watching him. He twisted as best he could to check, but the ropes would only let him go so far, and the chair blocked some of his vision.

He had to awkwardly throw his weight, pushing his toes across the floor, inch by painful screeching inch, dragging his own weight with the chair’s. The ropes dug into his arms as he strained and pulled, and he was constantly wary of accidentally pushing the whole thing to the ground with himself still tied to it. The floor was uneven and challenging to move across. The chair legs made a terrific amount of noise on the rough stone, like fingernails scraping a chalkboard.

Thank the stars he didn’t have to go far. Each scratch rattled his spine and chilled his blood; he was certain he was going to be caught. He stopped, holding his ragged breath, listening intently for any incoming footsteps, any sarcastic cruelty from Manny, anything. No one came. He was alone. For now, anyway.

But now that he was finally at the table, studying all its horrible implements arrayed in neat lines just waiting to be used on him, he had something new and much harder to face. His wrists and ankles were tied to the chair, and he couldn’t reach anything on the tabletop. He tried leaning forward, hoping he could catch something with his teeth and pull it close, but the restraints around his shoulders kept him sitting mostly straight. They had a _fraction_ of give, after Manny had yanked him so far off kilter to chop some of his hair off, but certainly not nearly enough.

He could imagine it now, he thought as he glared with frustration at the deadly tools just out of his grasp. “Too excited to wait, Graham?” Manny would ask. He’d pick up one of the hooks, and say, “Wanted to get started without me? Maybe you wanted to pick out what we used next?”

He kept his eyes away from the scissors. From his hair. He didn’t want to know how much he’d lost. The side of his head still pulsed in time with his thumping heartbeat, and he had the distinct ghostly sensation of blood on his temple from where the scissors had carelessly nicked him.

A sharp little paring knife was relatively close to the table edge. Graham knocked the chair into the table as hard as he could, which had the completely opposite effect of what he wanted. The knife slid further away from him. Not much, but even a small distance turned into miles for all the freedom he had. He bit back the curses he wanted to spit. Quiet, quiet. Don’t get caught. Think of something. _It’s just a puzzle. Here are the pieces. Start with a different piece._

He looked over the table again. The worn out spell books were precariously stacked, and they were swaying after he’d thumped the table. Perhaps if he managed to knock one of them over, the impact would rattle something closer to him. That was too risky to rely on, though. What about one of the potions? Could that wash something closer? That, too, was risky— _riskier_ , not knowing the contents. If a vial broke that shouldn’t, he could be burned or poisoned ahead of schedule.

With gloomy dread, he turned his gaze toward the scissors. They were dull and useless as far as cutting anything thicker than hair (and even then, they’d mostly been used to yank), but at least they _might_ be within his grasp. And if he could catch hold of them, it would stretch his reach out another couple inches.

Even the scissors were possibly too far, but after surveying the rest of the tabletop he knew he didn’t have many other options.

“Don’t tip too far back,” he warned himself, and he tilted the heavy chair, balancing between his toes and the back legs, scrabbling at the tabletop. The chair arm brushed the table, but there was enough space for him to _reaaaach_. His fingers brushed against the clumps of his own curls, and a shiver of revulsion and anticipation bit through his spine before he sternly forced himself into distant detachment.

“Come on, come on, hurry up,” he muttered, a near silent chant to himself as he barely touched the dull blade. At least his bracers were protecting his wrists, he thought grimly, and then his fingers managed to get enough traction on the scissors to scoot them closer. He took a deep breath, resting his strained hands for an instant, and then went at it again, whispering, “Come on, it’s right there, you can do this, come on, Graham.” Which didn’t actually help but made him feel better.

Closer, closer, and... _yes._

Now he had a pair of really dull, disgusting scissors clamped in one hand. His discarded hair clung to the blades, and he longed to sweep it away. But this wasn’t the end goal: the scissors wouldn’t cut it (ha). He’d have to use them to get the paring knife.

He eased the chair back down for a moment rather than risk it toppling over while he carefully twirled the scissors from blade to handle, and then, with a deep breath, began it all again, this time aiming for the paring knife. The scissors scraped and caught on the table, but he held on grimly, focused on keeping his balance, on not dropping the scissors, on not knocking the paring knife further away. He had no attention to spare for listening for approaching guards, and just had to pray to the stars no one was watching.

The knife spun on the table, nudged here and there by Graham’s desperate prodding and pulling. He tried to swallow around the lump in his throat—this was his only chance, and he knew it. With some ridiculous stars-blessed luck, he managed to snag the ornamentation on the handle. He dragged it forward.

He left it teetering near the edge of the table, apprehensive about knocking it onto the floor. He carefully released the scissors, leaving them within reach in case he needed them again, and fumbled with the knife instead, determined to have it safely in his grasp before settling the chair again.

_Easy, easy, come on, eaaaasy. You’ve got this._

But it slipped. It fell. It was falling, and he had no other options if he lost this, and he had to scramble for it, catching it by the blade accidentally, and he yelped, “Zards!” and he lost his balance, and the chair teetered wildly on its back legs, _almost_ overtipping, before dropping back to all four legs with a crash.

He clamped his mouth shut on impact, his clacking teeth barely missing his tongue. The blade had been freshly sharpened, and it had skimmed the base of his thumb, and he saw blood smeared on the chair and his trousers. It probably wasn’t a bad cut, not compared to what it was meant to do in Manny’s hands, but it _hurt_.

No time to worry, though. He clumsily managed to spin the blade and began sawing at the ropes, the angle twisting his wrist and fingers, the handle slipping in his blood-and-sweat-slicked grip, all the while listening nervously for incoming enemies. Every single sound, every clatter in the distance, was a spear against the floor behind him, was Manny striding in, was the end of his escape. But, no. These goblins were the laziest, most inattentive guards ever: they continued to leave him be. Manny must not have left any to watch him, confident in Graham’s helplessness and the restraints.

The thick bindings took an eternity to hack through, and each passing second made it more likely Manny would return. The paring knife was sharp, but small and awkward, and he almost lost hold of it multiple times. He accidentally sliced his bracer and his wristbands, and he nicked the side of his hand once, but at last the ropes snapped clear, and he yanked his wrist free.

Graham dropped the knife on the table—easy to reach, now—and jammed the base of his thumb in his mouth, clearing away the blood so he could see how badly it was cut. It wasn’t too deep, just bloody as finger cuts were wont to be. Still, it smarted, and he thought he’d probably want to bind it with some scrap of fabric before escaping if he could.

Now that Graham could move his arm, the ropes at his shoulders were hardly a hindrance. He selected a larger knife, releasing his other arm, his shoulders, and his ankles with comparatively quick strokes.

His fingers skimmed along the aching patch on the side of his head, feeling the ragged hair and the torn skin with breathless uncertainty. He felt dry blood, and it stung, but it was nothing that couldn’t be dealt with later, in safety. And the lost hair would grow back. No time now. _Hurry, hurry._

He pushed himself out of the dreadful chair, stretching muscles sore from their restriction. The minty concoction they’d used to knock him out still lingered, apparently, because he almost swooned. His head was swirling, and he could see glittery sparks dancing before his eyes. Desperate, Graham caught himself against the table, knives and screws and hooks clattering against each other. That one spell book finally fell over. He extricated himself, holding his head as still as he could in case sharp movements brought on another wave of dizziness.

Standing helped. He felt himself growing steadier the longer he stood, and he tried a couple paces back and forth. He would like a glass of water, but that wasn’t going to happen.

He checked his cloak—surprisingly, the goblins hadn’t bothered to take anything from him. His hand gripped Achaka’s bow, rescued from the caves just a few hours ago, and a sudden warm confidence filled his heart. His hand was still bleeding, but Graham gave himself an Achaka salute, thumping his fist into his open palm, a familiar gesture of confidence and bravery and wisdom and kindness. He would not be caught unawares again, and he would see the sunshine again, and that was a promise.

He eased out of the cave, checking his surroundings. As thought, there weren’t any guards monitoring the torture room. Another lucky break. Graham wasn’t sure which way to go in this spiraling cave system, so he picked a random tunnel, yanked his hat firmer on his head, and started running, cloak billowing out behind him. Now wasn’t the time to be fussy. This was just another puzzle, and all the pieces were before him. _Find a way out. And hurry._

He wasn’t too far along the cave before he heard a keening cry of startled loss and anger. It echoed around him, ringing clear among the stalactites. Graham paused, flinging himself against a stone wall, chest heaving, to listen. Manny had finally returned. And Graham was gone.

Time to move.  



	5. Held

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'It's nothing, it's just a bruise' with Graham" prompt, because who am I but a tragedian who asks for angst prompts at all hours of the day.

Of all the things in his goblin cell, the mirror was the worst thing.

Okay, not the worst thing. The thin mattress that felt like it was stuffed with rocks instead of straw was pretty bad. And the water leaking down the walls and ensuring the floor was always wet was awful, too. And the rusty pipes that he _still_ banged his elbows against if he wasn’t paying attention, those were nasty.

No, actually: the locked door was the worst thing. Definitely.

But the mirror wasn’t great, either. It showed off every single weary line in his face (twice, since it was cracked and reflected doubly). The dark rings of exhaustion under his eyes made it look like he’d taken a punch to the face. He still hadn’t _actually_ been punched in the face, thankfully. But he had fallen badly (...tell the truth, Graham, been _dropped_ badly after the last shakedown) and glanced off the stone table and was extremely lucky he hadn't been very badly hurt. There was a purply bruise on his cheek that hadn’t been there the night before. He touched it gingerly and winced.

Well.

It could be a lot worse. Just a bruise. Another to add to the ridiculously colorful collection on his arms, legs, and hip. Fine.

He sprawled on the mattress for a couple hours, trying not to touch his face or think about it and generally failing at both tasks, until the goblins came around to let him out for his evening chores. They ordered him to feed the rat, like usual, thrusting a huge drumstick of unknown origins in his face. But today they also shoved a broom in his hands so he would sweep...well, he thought they were pantomiming the rose garden, which he supposed made sense. The little fallen petals from the roses were piling up at the base of the pot, rustling like autumn leaves beneath his boots whenever he approached the flowers.

He suspected Amaya could get a lot more use out of the broom than he could, if he could get it to her. Something to think about. But for now, he shoved the questionable meat into his inventory and headed up to the next level to check on his friends. Specifically, he was feeling anxious about the Hobblepots, not sure if they’d had enough to eat or not.

On the way to Muriel and Chester, he walked past the Feys. Tonight, they were looking dozy and worn out, and he decided it would be best to sneak by quietly and let them rest—he'd see how they were doing later on tonight.

He was halfway across the floor before Wente, who had sleepily raised his head to watch the king’s progress, scrambled up and yelped, “Stars above, Graham, are you okay?”

Graham froze, one foot in the air. Aaah. Right. It did look like he’d been punched, didn’t it?

“It’s nothing, it’s just a bruise,” Graham said, hastily, backing into the shadows even though it was much too late to hide it.

Bramble sat up and eyed him. “You get over here right now,” she said, with more authority than Graham had ever managed to use in front of his royal guards—he could take lessons from her.

Dutifully, and a little sheepishly, he approached. She got to her feet, wobbling, and Wente took her by the shoulders to steady her. She smiled at him, and then turned to face Graham, her eyes soft and worried. “Stand here,” she said, pointing, and Graham did so, pressing against the bars. She reached up and tilted his chin with her finger, moving his head this way and that as she studied the mark on his cheek. In the yellowish glow of the mushrooms nearby, they all had an odd pallor, but his bruise seemed particularly black in this light.

“What happened?” she said.

“It’s really nothing,” Graham said.

“Mmm.”

“...I fell, that’s all.”

“Mmm.”

“...on a rock.”

“Mmm.”

“Okay, okay. They” (there was only one “they,” he didn’t need to explain) “were holding me in the air, shaking me down for weapons and tools, and when I didn’t have anything on me, they dropped me, but I hit the stone table in my cell.” He shifted as she carefully tilted his head further back, and then she let go.

“Oh, Your Highness,” she sighed.

“I know, sorry doesn’t help,” Wente said, his arm around his wife’s shoulders and squeezing her into him, looking at Graham with aching hurt, his compassion feeling the pain as though it had been inflicted on himself, “but we are _sorry_. I’m so, so, sorry. I’d love to give those brats a thump myself, teach ‘em something, but it wouldn’t do any good. Isn’t there anything we can do to help?”

Graham shook his head. “Unless you’ve got a raw steak hidden in that stove,” he joked.

“Alas, no.” Wente paused, and then said brightly, “Oh, wait! Did you feed that rat yet?”

Graham realized exactly where that train of thought was going and raised his hands to emphasize, “Ohhh no, I’m not putting that whatever-it-is anywhere near my eye.”

“Wente, don’t be such a pastry chef,” Bramble said, bumping her shoulder into his. “That only helps if the meat’s cold, and I can’t imagine that drumstick has ever been iced in its life.”

Wente’s mustache drooped. “Well, you can’t blame a man for trying,” he said.

Graham smiled lopsidedly—it hurt his cheek if he smiled properly. “I should go,” he said. “Chores, you know.”

“You’ve been running around for days, Majesty,” Bramble said. “Wait a spell with us. We can’t do anything else for you, not here and now, but....” She looked to Wente, and he nodded, easing her down gently so that she sat with her back against the bars. “Sit here for a bit. We can’t do much but be company—but please, let us do that much.”

Graham slid down, sitting beside her, the bars of the cell between them. Her hand caught his, their fingers twining desperately together, and Wente sat beside his wife and took Graham’s other hand. Though they all sat back to back, they held each other grimly. There wasn’t much to say, and the silence of the caves swelled around them. They could hear every chittering salamander, every drip of water, every clank of a spear against the stone floor. They didn’t speak, didn’t break the stillness. They just sat there, aching and tired and sick and quiet but resolutely clinging to what hope they could, cradling it in their clasped hands.


	6. Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill: “You can’t keep doing this to yourself” with Graham and Neese, modified ever so lightly for plurality.

Graham, still mostly asleep, rolled over, reaching for his wife to draw her close, and he realized with a sudden start of alarm that the other side of the bed was empty. The sheets were cold. She’d been gone for a while.

He sat up, blinking. It was quiet, dark. The furniture scattered around the room was limned with moonlight. The full moon sat high above the castle by this time of night, making parts of the room seem to glow with a chilly blue aura. In his dreamy state, it almost felt like the light of a fairy tale, but a dangerous one full of gloominess and woe. There was a muffled sort of dozy silence in the room, like someone was holding a feathery comforter over his ears. A silence he wasn’t used to, now, after years of marriage and having someone always at his side.

He stumbled out of bed, tangled in the sheets, fully awake now. “Neese?” he called, softly, voice rough with sleep. Not that there was much question to it. He knew where she would be. He drew a knitted blanket over his shoulders, another type of cloak, and padded down the hall.

The torches and candles in the hall were mostly burned or blown out, it being both too late in the night and too early in the morning for any of the staff to be tending this area. He walked by memory in the darker patches not graced by the moonlight streaming through the windows. But by now the castle was as familiar as his childhood home had ever been, and he could walk these halls blindfolded.

The children’s room wasn’t far from the royal bedchamber. Just down a corridor. But Graham walked slowly, not wanting to intrude but still wanting to comfort. Neese did the same courtesy for him when he was keeping watch and unable to sleep. She always approached quietly, let him know she was there if he wanted her. Usually, he did, and they leaned against each other to keep warm; castles always seemed to have some sort of chill, even with the tapestries and blankets and fireplaces.

Or maybe that was just the case for the King and Queen of Daventry. Cold, longing, lost.

As expected, Neese was standing in Rosella’s bedroom. The toddler was deeply asleep and dreaming. She’d kicked off her blankets and was sprawled across the top of them, a tangle of limbs. Her golden hair, gently wavy like Graham’s own black curls, was arrayed on her pillow like a frizzy halo.

Graham caught a glimpse of light glinting off sharp metal. Neese bore a short sword, mostly decorative and used for official ceremonies but still a defensive weapon if needed. She held it to the window, tilting it to see the moon reflecting off it.

A mother unable to protect her child, her sweet Alexander. She was now standing alone in the night to keep Rosella safe.

Graham did the exact same thing with Achaka’s bow, sometimes. On certain nights when the nightmares snuck up on him, he stood by the window, watching the shadowy landscape transform from black silence to gray hills and fields and forests, arrows in hand. Didn’t matter that Royal Guard Number One kept patrols running around the clock in the castle. Didn’t matter that they were all armed and determined to keep the family safe. Kyle, Larry, all the rest, watching the shadows grow and melt as the moon and sun rose in turn.

Didn’t matter.

He coughed, gently, from the door, so she wouldn’t be startled and try to slash him. “Neese,” he whispered, almost silent, determined not to wake his daughter.

She glanced over her shoulder, acknowledged him with the slightest tilt of her head, then back to the window. “Graham.”

“Can’t sleep?”

She just shrugged. He could see she was shivering by the way the moonlight glinted. It probably wasn’t from cold.

“Can I come in?”

“Please.”

His steps were silent on the plush green carpet. They’d picked it to make the twins feel like they were having an adventure in the fields, could play in it like it was grass on the days when it was too cold or blustery to go out. He reached out, and Valanice sank into his embrace. He pulled the blanket around them, draping her in it too, and her free hand tangled in the weave of the knitting. Her other hand still held the sword, angled out now as though it was protecting them both.

“Wecan’t keep doing this to ourselves,” Neese murmured after a while.

Graham rested his chin on her shoulder, holding her closer. “I know.”

They were quiet for a while, listening to Rosella’s gentle breathing. “But I don’t want to stop,” Neese admitted.

“I know.”

The years were moving past. Rosella was growing up. But Alexander’s cradle, and then his bed, stayed empty, their little boy taken from them by their enemies. They maintained his bed nevertheless, regularly shook out the blankets and the pillow (it would break their hearts to smell dust on the sheets), painted the little sheep and goats and unicorns (Mr Fancycakes) on the wall by the headboard like they’d always meant to. Even if no one was sleeping in it. Hoping against all hope that someday he would be welcomed back. Their prince.

“I just don’t like her being alone,” Neese said.

“Maybe,” Graham said after a while, “maybe if we brought Triumph up here at night it would feel less empty.”

“You’ve been trying to get that gerbil up here for years,” Neese whispered, and there was a broken laugh in her voice now. The tension of the night snapped, the eerie chilliness fading away into warmth.

“Yeah, but there’s reason now,” Graham said, “Number One can’t say no, right?”

“You said you could never coax Triumph up the steps.”

“I bet I could carry him,” Graham said thoughtfully. “He weighs less now he’s older.”

“You can try it,” Neese agreed, and now she had a proper smile, beaming up at her husband. The moonlight glittered and sparkled, no longer something bitter blue and unwelcoming, but a comforting glow that surrounded them and supported them. She gently returned the sword to its decorative scabbard on her hip, gripped the blanket with both hands, and pulled, tugging Graham down for a kiss on his stubbly cheek. “We can try it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (i have feels about painting the toddlers' nursery with sheep and goats. imagine graham with a paintbrush painstakingly painting fluffballs. imagine joy.)


	7. Splintered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt filling for: "Graham + a character of your choice 'that looks infected'" - keeping those angsty prompts rollin'. 
> 
> (does not contain any graphic descriptions of an infected injury, so no worries about squick)

That was the thing about splinters. They got under your skin.

Which wasn’t a funny joke anymore, now that Graham thought about it.

How he’d gotten these splinters was simple enough. The newest knight of Daventry, Sir Graham, had tripped and fallen and caught himself on some wood and gone back to the castle and worried at it until it now felt like a bee sting in the middle of his palm. One he was allergic to, even. A gnawing hot pain that pulsed with his heartbeat.

But he wouldn’t tell anyone about it, wouldn’t ask for help. Not only because of the embarrassment of Sir Graham of Daventry himself being bothered by something so small as a measly couple splinters. But because they might ask where he’d been and what he’d done.

And he didn’t want to explain that he, flush with bravery after his victory in the knight’s tourney, heart aching with compassion, and thinking he was being remarkably wise, went back for Achaka, went back to the caves under the old well, hoping against all hope that his eyes had tricked him and he would find the knight, hurt but alive, and help him, even though he’d seen…and heard…the… _snapping_.

(He knew. Of course, he knew. But if nothing else, he could at least maybe say goodbye.)

He started. He tried. He got a little ways down into the cavern before the fear overtook him. His hands started shaking, and he couldn’t breathe and he thought he heard a snuffling sleepy grumble and growl of a dragon hot with anger and fire and he couldn’t stand it, could only hear the roar and smell the brimstone and it all repeated again and again and again and he whirled and tripped over his own boots in the dark and slammed against an old wooden post someone had left among the array of debris and clawed his way out and only later, once he’d calmed down, cloak wrapped tight around his shoulders as he huddled beneath a tree in full view of the blazing sun and the safety of a late Autumn afternoon, he realized his hands had been shredded by splinters.

(He wouldn’t be able to return to that cave, to muster his bravery, until years later, when he would search for the missing treasures of the kingdom, when his life would change drastically once again.)

Not a story he wanted to tell anyone. Especially not Whisper or Acorn, because they would give him those horrible looks, pity and sorrow. Or Royal Guard Number One, who might think someone as frivolous as Graham maybe didn’t deserve his new title. Or…or certainly not the king, whom Graham had only met a few times as of yet and wasn’t sure how he would react to a story of grief, not after the way he’d spiraled into distress following the loss of his queen.

Graham sat in the little room he’d been given—as a knight, he had his own place in the castle, although No1 had grudgingly mentioned that he could, if he wanted, also pick up a place in the town should he want to get away from the hustle of the castle on his days off. By the glowing light of the purple eye lantern that he had propped up on the bedside table, Graham dug at his palms, with fingers, then fingernails, then, nervously, the tip of Amaya’s dagger (which made him too nervous, so he stopped doing that quickly). But he was just making a mess of his palms without getting the deep, ragged bits of wood out.

So, he wrapped his hands up and hid the bindings under gloves and tried not to think about it. He’d been told somewhere at some point in his life that splinters would come out on their own, probably.

But the pain niggled and nagged, as the memories of the cave and the dragon and Achaka niggled and nagged, and Graham kept poking and prodding and pulling and teasing and eventually just biting his own hand, as though his teeth could nip the edges of the broken wood and pull it free when his more precise fingernails couldn’t.

A day or so later, his hands were definitely raw feeling, and he’d started scraping his teeth along his palms like that could ease the itching and the ache. Which both helped and made things worse, somehow, at the exact same time.

Holding a sword was a laugh and a half. If the laughter was terribly sarcastic, anyway. He was supposed to be taking a refresher course from No1, to make sure what he’d learned at his knight classes had actually been up to par, but he couldn’t get the grip No1 kept showing him, not when his hands were on fire beneath his gloves—and not because the temperature was too hot.

Normally, close training with No1 would have him bouncing all over the field, eager to learn his new position and show off what he knew already, but a weird lethargy had settled over his curly head and he couldn’t seem to shake the cobwebs. And he couldn’t stop wincing every time he picked something up or tried to mimic No1’s hand placement.

“As a Royal Knight instead of a Royal Guard, you aren’t my subordinate, _technically,”_ No1 said, dry as a bone and glaring imperiously at Graham, “so I cannot _order_ you to do anything. So instead I shall _highly suggest,_ with all the accompanying air quotes and general threats of punishment you care to assign should you choose to ignore me, that you go to Muriel Hobblepot _this exact instant_ so she can mend whatever hell you’ve clearly done to your hands.”

“Yessir,” Graham said, and scrambled out of the courtyard before No1 could not-order him to take his gloves off or explain what had happened.

So, now he was perched in the alcove in the alchemy shop, sitting at the little table the Hobblepots ordinarily used for fortune telling. He watched the town through the stained-glass windows, red and yellow and blue discoloring reality. His aching hands were still itching and scratching through the gloves and he wanted to jam them in his mouth like that could ease the pain, but he resolutely kept them hidden under the table.

“All right, now, let’s hear what this is about,” Muriel said, settling down in the chair across from him.

“I. Um. Hurt my hands,” he said. “It’s not a huge deal, but. Number One said...”

“Let’s see,” Muriel interrupted, holding her hands out for his.

Graham nervously picked the gloves off, tugging the fingers until they slipped free, revealing his blood-spotty bandaged hackjob. He winced, and she frowned, peeling back the fabric.

“That looks infected,” she said, flatly. “Or at the very least well on the way to becoming so. What on earth did you do to make such a frog’s breakfast of yourself?”

“Frog’s breakfast?” Chester yelled from the back of the shop. Graham jumped, and Muriel’s grip tightened reflexively around his wrists to keep him still. He hadn’t even known Chester was here. Probably hadn’t been listening in either, but the moment a frog was mentioned... “Are we ordering frogs for breakfast? Muriel, you said we weren’t allowed to do that anymore!”

“We aren’t ordering any frogs!” Muriel yelled back.

“They were only splinters,” Graham said, circumventing her question. “They weren’t supposed to get like this.”

“You should have asked me for help right away instead of letting them sit,” she said, frowning. “It looks like you tried to get them all out on your own and just made it worse. Did you use a _knife_? By yourself? Can’t imagine you sterilized it, either.”

Graham fidgeted, and Muriel sighed. “I forget how young you are,” she said. “You’re, what, sixteen?”

“Eighteen,” he said, defensively. Almost nineteen. He hadn’t needed parental permission to join the knight tourney.

“Still young. You’ll learn. You’ll learn you can ask for help.” About this, and about other things, were the unspoken words. She was watching him closely, and he could feel the weight of that on his shoulders.

His first thought was that it felt like a threat, like she was demanding more of him than he could give. He’d given so much of himself in that cave, to Achaka, to that dragon, and he couldn’t give it again, couldn’t share himself like that knowing it would hurt. But as she watched, he realized her eyes were kind, and he started to breathe again. It was more of a comforting promise, a weight more akin to a blanket than a blade. A promise that he didn’t have to fight his fears alone.

What had happened still gnawed at his guts, still held his heart in a strangling grip and made him flinch if he thought about it. Trying to go back had proven just how splintered and broken he was. But trying to hold it in, to keep it to himself, that’s what caused an infection. That’s what made things worse.

She almost seemed to hear his thoughts. She was either clairvoyant...or just a very old and judgmental person who could read the room. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Graham opened his mouth, thought about it, and closed his mouth again, shaking his head. “Not yet,” he admitted. He just...wasn’t ready. The pain was still too raw. “But. Maybe, sometime.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” Muriel said, and her gentleness was a balm on his soul, holding a promise of a better future if he relied on his friends, explained and hoped and learned and trusted with them. She picked up a slim little knife, and moved a little bowl of salve closer with her elbow. “Now, hold still. This is going to _hurt.”_


	8. The Sound of the Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill: "when were you going to tell me?" with Graham and another character of your choice?

Daventry felt like a fairy tale in more ways than one: the landscape surrounding the place glittered, and the characters that inhabited it gave it a lively atmosphere. But mostly, it felt like a childhood book of stories, something that had been rumpled and read a thousand times, hands smoothing out all the sharp edges until it was soft and familiar.

The country was still dangerous, still fanged. Royal guards sharpened their boots, royal knights kept swords and bows to hand. There were wolves in the forests and dragons in the caves. As a fairy tale ought to have, of course. But the court itself, the throne room King Edward maintained, was quiet and still. Peaceful…and yet, somehow, very lonely.

Graham had been anxious for his first presentation to the king, and had had to hide his shaking hands in his cloak as he swept into the low bow Royal Guard Number One had carefully instructed him to do. The guard stood nearby, watching for protocol to be upheld. Graham remembered his knight classes, and performed well, and he had the sense that No1 gave a relieved sort of smile beneath his helmet.

King Edward, it turned out, wasn’t all that intimidating. He’d looked disinterested and barely paid Graham any heed, focused on some inner thoughts. Later, as Graham explored the straight corridors and winding trails of his new home, he considered why.

The townsfolk told him stories, told him about the Queen, about her sudden wasting illness, her passing. It had been around this time of year, in the autumn—she had fallen with the leaves. Graham had seen the bells the king had personally strung in the gardens and town, to remind everyone how much the lost Queen loved music. Little jangling notes twinkled and danced between notes of birdsong and squirrel chatter and the occasional (badly played) lute from passing minstrels.

Little wonder the king had ignored Graham, if he was dwelling on those memories. It was a wonder the king had even given him a nod of approval, if he was so preoccupied.

Graham was perfectly content to sit back for now until he learned precisely what a royal knight was meant to do. There would be time to make a good impression in a season less fraught with sorrow. At the moment, until he was assigned to quests, he mostly stood in the throne room (the still, silent, throne room) waiting for audience hours (which few attended) or lunch (which was always fantastic). The royal guards were always present, No1 close at Graham’s side, periodically muttering for Graham to straighten up or fetch something for the king.

So, Graham had become accustomed to having the royal guards instruct him more than the king. Until the day when he arrived in the throne room and found it empty. He wondered nervously if he’d missed some summons or other, but no one had told him of anything that he could recall.

He’d woken earlier than usual, with the stars still glittering high in the sky despite the dusky blue of the horizon. A nightmare, one rapidly becoming familiar, had ripped him from his blankets, and he hadn’t been able to close his eyes again without hearing a dragon roaring in the distance or taste the slight chalky flavor of the hypnosis powder. In his haste to start the day and get away from his thoughts, he’d arrived too early.

Graham paced the throne room, studying it without No1 kicking him to keep his eyes down. The craftsmanship of every item was delightful to behold: twisting candelabrums ensured the place was cozy, and rich tapestries softened the hard lines of carved columns. The throne itself, with its terrifically imposing sculpted lion heads and gilded crown patterns, was impressive, but ultimately not what caught his gaze. There was an empty niche half hidden behind some curtains, and Graham lingered there for a while, wondering what was meant to be displayed in the empty space. It seemed like a nice place for a mirror.

“Good morning, young knight.”

Graham practically leapt out of his hair. He whirled, cloak and feather fluttering behind him, as he fell into his regular bow.

“I fear I have been rude,” King Edward said. His voice was scratchy with age and disuse. “I have not properly met you. You are the newest lad, young Graham, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, Sire.”

“I have been watching you,” the king said. “But I have not talked with you. Perhaps you would like to walk with me?”

Graham swallowed, glancing unconsciously over his shoulder in case No1 was standing there glaring at him. But, no, he was alone, and had no one to lean against for a protocol check. “If Your Majesty would like that,” he said, and he couldn’t quite hide his nervousness. Instinctively, he thumped his fist against his open palm, and that made him feel a bit braver. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he said, with more confidence. “The gardens, maybe?” He’d come to enjoy walking the tended paths as much as the wild ones in the forest, and—

“The gardens,” the king said. “The bells there…” his voice faded.

Graham immediately regretted suggesting it. Of course, the gardens would remind the king of his loss. What a terrible idea. Grief weighed the king down like the sacks of flour Wente dragged across the town square, like the huge trees the Crumbler felled, and Graham was standing here saying they go to a place that just reminded him of that sorrow, that increased the pressure. He was going to get kicked out of the court if this was the first proper impression he was going to make.

“I should like to see the gardens,” the king agreed. “Come, walk beside an old man.”

They walked together, Graham wondering if he was expected to maintain a chatter or if it was best to keep quiet. His mouth was too dry to do much more than croak, so he decided to wait until the king asked him a question. Which the king did.

“Tell me of the tournament,” Edward said. “I did not watch this year, and I have not heard the stories yet. Did you enjoy it?”

“Most of it,” Graham said. He hadn’t let himself think about it too closely, to be honest. He hadn’t wanted to think about certain…events. Even if the certain events haunted his dreams anyway.

“I wish to hear about it,” the king said. “Come, stand under the…under the bells. Let me hear of what you lost.”

Graham’s head snapped up. No1 had strictly warned him that no one was telling Edward of Achaka’s passing, that no one wanted to lay more grief at the king’s feet right now so close to the anniversary of the Queen’s own passing, when Edward was so lost in a haze of memory and sorrow.

“Your Majesty,” he said, unsure of what to say.

“When were you going to tell me? I suspect never,” Edward said. “But I have seen you do this, with your hands, when you think no one is watching you or you seem uncomfortable.” He imitated the familiar Achaka Salute, the sign that Graham used so often, daily even, whenever memories or nightmares tried to sneak up behind him with their murderous dragon’s breath. “I suspect you were ordered not to tell me. And I haven’t asked. But I hear things. As a king, even a feeble useless king like myself—no, don’t say otherwise, I know the truth, how could I not—even a man like me knows of the goings on in his kingdom. I have heard tell of this…Achaka. Whispers only, I fear. But if the whispers contain only a fraction of his story, then it is a magnificent tale of bravery that should be told with triumph.”

They stood in the garden in silence. Wind twirled over the walls, chiming the bells that surrounded them, carrying the scent of fading flowers and the eventual promise of snow. Graham shivered. The early morning was chilly, the sun just peeking through tree branches and beginning to warm the courtyard, but he thought perhaps he shivered for another reason.

“I haven’t actually…thought about it, told anyone about it,” he whispered. “I don’t know if I can actually…”

“My Queen,” Edward said, “my beautiful Maylie, loved flowers and gardens and music. She would organize dances at night, in the summer. She would light hundreds of lanterns all throughout her gardens so everyone could see where they stood, would keep her rose beds safe while we danced together. We forgot about rank and royalty, and simply loved our country and our people in it. The creativity and the joy. The confidence they had in us, and the respect we showed them, and we were happy. They named me Edward the Benevolent then, though I do not know if I earned or have maintained that title. But she grew sick, my queen, after early autumn rains plagued us. So many fell ill, but she…she was weaker than the rest. The attempts to have a child, perhaps…but no matter.

“We tried everything. We reached out across the countries. We asked every magician, every traveler, every alchemist, every dryad. We even gave away our treasures to charlatans and liars pretending they could cure her, to no avail. Perhaps there is some magic we did not find, some fruit or other that could have changed her fate. But we could not, and she left her music behind. I hold her music close, lad. And I think you hold your Achaka close, with your salute and your respect. I, too, wish to show him some respect, if I can. Please. Tell me the story, here, under the bells and the music. It will help. All of it. The joys. And the sorrows.”

Graham swallowed hard, and pressed his hands together in another salute, wishing for bravery under the King’s stare, clear-eyed and wise and unexpected. It took a moment, the king standing patiently, and then the story began:

“Well, Sire. It all started on the ridge above the kingdom. I had traveled all night, with my friend Triumph—the gerbil in the stables, I can introduce you if you like. We had to get to Daventry with enough time to rest before the knight tournament. Except, well, the tournament’s date had changed, and…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (in the cadence of No one expects the Spanish Inquisition -- No one expects Edward the Benevolent)


	9. Aggrandizement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, there's this au: the "Manny brags upfront to Graham about his successful scheming in Chapter Two rather than having it be an endchapter reveal" au, which is a very unwieldy description. Graham would approach the problems he faces in a completely different light if he knew what was happening from the beginning. 
> 
> And also there's a lot of angst potential in it.

The goblins hoisted Graham off the mattress and shoved him forward. He stumbled, tripping over his boots and the slippery mud, barely able to recatch his balance with his hands tied behind his back. He and his captors stood in a loose cluster in a damp clearing just off of the Daventry River. The trees were heavy with rainwater, leaves dark and glossy and claustrophobic. The bank here was a bit loose with uneven scree, but it looked like they nevertheless wanted to get the mattress down it, into the river (would it even float?) to keep moving forward.

With the endless rain, the water was fast—they'd be well out of the royal guard’s standard patrol range pretty quickly, going stars knew where at a good clip. From here, Graham remembered, the river would vanish into the cave systems beneath the surface, caves that he hadn’t ever explored in all his time as a royal knight, too wary of what could be down there. And now it seemed he might find out. There was just no telling how far the river went, or where under the earth they would end up. He had to get away before that happened.

It looked like they might be here a few minutes while the goblins altered their route. They pointed their spears at him from every angle, forced him to sit, and lashed his ankles together so he could only hobble at best, making escape unlikely. Then, the majority of the goblins went to deal with the mattress, already floppy and heavy and wet and difficult to maneuver, leaving two standing guard.

Sort of standing guard, anyway. They immediately lost interest and started reenacting the capture, one apparently playing Graham and one playing the pouncing goblin that had knocked the king senseless. One kept climbing to the top of a rock and jumping, while the other threw up his arms in increasingly comedic and overblown reactions. They seemed to be looking for the right poses and timing. Graham watched for a second, baffled and annoyed, before realizing that the rock they were using as a makeshift baker’s rooftop was actually relatively distant from where he was sitting, and they weren’t paying him a shred of attention.

This could be his only chance. But with his ankles tied, he wasn’t going anywhere far or fast, and they would just pull him back. Unless he could get his hands free....

He let his head droop to his chest. He tried to look small and helpless, so that his goblin captors wouldn’t think he was causing trouble should they happen to glance over at him. Would leave him alone. But his fingers were scrabbling at the ropes around his wrists, trying desperately to find the knots that held him. He contorted his arms as far as the rope would allow, grateful for his bracers protecting his skin from rubbing against the coarse bindings.

He was so focused that it took him a moment to realize someone was pulling his crown off his head. Someone standing over him. He looked up, and his stomach flipped. He inhaled sharply to cry out a name, startled and confused but with unexpected hope swelling in his chest.

An armored hand grabbed his mouth before he could speak, and his nose pressed against Manny’s helmet as Graham’s once-upon-a-time friend squeezed hard, and he could hear the sharp, cold smile in the knight’s voice, and the hope curled and wilted and died in his heart, and he _knew._

 _“Ahh,_ it seems you’re a bit in- _deposed_ ,” Manny said, cheerfully twisting Graham’s penchant for jokes into a biting stab. The crown was looped over his arm, leaving him free to squeeze harder still, as though he could rip Graham’s head like a paper doll’s. “Perhaps someone else should rule. We would _hate_ to leave Daventry in a bind, wouldn’t we?”

“Mmphy!” Graham could barely breathe around the knight’s hand, startled and stunned and frozen.

Maybe...maybe the goblins would see Manny, would chase him away. What a wild thought. Who was worse? Right now, Manny was so much worse, a cruel impossibility. But the goblins were looking in their direction, not changing what they were doing. Didn’t seem to mind this at all.

Manny growled something low. Goblinese? Sounded like it. The goblins looking in their direction nodded, turned back to their preparations.

Planned, then. This had been planned. They were working together. And Graham had been soundly caught in the middle of it. His shoulders slumped as the truth hit like a fist to the gut.

Manny let go of Graham so that he could hold the crown up and inspect it. Graham sucked in a huge gulp of air, mouth still aching with the ghostly imprints of Manny’s fingers, and gasped, “Manny, why are you doing this?”

“What a question,” Manny said. With one hand, he kept the crown aloft, but with the other he caught Graham by the chin, tilting his head and examining the tender bruise reddening on his cheek where a goblin’s wild swing had caught him under the eye during the attack. Graham squirmed, but the ropes and the weight of Manny’s armor kept him pinned and relatively still. “Because you don’t deserve this crown. It’s really that simple. You don’t deserve it, you didn’t earn it, but your buckethead guards would throw a fit if I were to dare suggest otherwise. So the only way to fix what’s been made wrong is to take care of it myself.”

“I _—_ I don’t...” What to do, what to say, when all he could hear was the blood pounding in his head, and the weak ache in his arms, and the fear that curled in his stomach magnified.

“Eloquent, Your Majesty. A sharp wit, indeed.” Manny drove his thumb against Graham’s sensitive bruise, and Graham twisted, sudden hot tears blurring his vision, but Manny wouldn’t let go, held Graham down until he stilled. “I think your noble steed has been readied, Sire. Let me return this to you.” He slammed the crown down hard, flattening Graham’s rain-soaked curls. “Let’s call this a temporary loan. I’ll be taking it with interest soon enough.”

“Manny, I swear, you’re going to regret this,” Graham said bitterly. “My men will hunt you down. This will not end here.”

Manny shrugged, snapped his fingers, uttered a sharp word in goblinese. A goblin wrapped a hand around Graham’s sore mouth, silencing the king. “You’re right. It won’t end here. I can’t just kill you. The guards _would_ be offended at that, and I wouldn’t be permitted to take what is owed without a lot of fuss and bother. But I can make this _fun._ And when they find your starved body, dead of the most natural accidental cause, left at the bottom of some cavern, they’ll be looking for a successor, not a scapegoat. And who else would be the best choice but second place?” He shook his head. “Second place, ridiculous. Never should have happened. I’ll make them forget about that.”

Graham kicked his bound feet as hard as he could, trying to knock Manny over, but Manny smoothly stepped to the side, waggling a finger while saying, “Temper, temper.” And then goblins were on him, gripping him hard, hauling him to the mattress now bobbing in the river. Manny stood on the bank, waving cheerfully. Graham’s muffled swearing and pleading got no further than the goblin’s hand, and then stopped entirely as they drifted into darkness.

* * *

Graham was presented to the goblin king. He tried to explain what was truly happening, tried to show that this was a massive misunderstanding, that the goblins were being manipulated and duped—but to absolutely no avail.

Potentially because the Goblin King didn’t understand human speech.

More likely because Graham was still bound and someone had stuffed a gag in his mouth.

Graham suspected the gag was part of Manny’s orders, as a failsafe against Graham somehow managing to convince his captors to let him go—he hadn’t been allowed to say a word to anyone since meeting the knight on the riverbank. Humiliated and frustrated, he tried again and again to shake free, to explain, but the gag’s knots at the back of his head held firm, pulling strands of his hair, fabric filling his mouth and pinning his tongue like a butterfly on a display board and choking his words away. His garbled protests and struggles were ignored.

The goblin king gave him a hard look, apparently comparing Graham’s visual details with whatever Manny had told him (he was especially interested in Graham’s crown, which was probably the only reason why Manny had let Graham keep it), nodded sharply, and left him in the hands of his captors.

They untied his wrists and flung him into a cell, slamming the door behind him with a loud clang and a snapping lock, leaving Graham to rip the gag out of his own mouth and pick at the knots binding his ankles himself. Once he was fully free of the ropes, he stumbled to the door, grabbed the bars, and begged for someone to _please come back, please, listen, this is all a trick, you’re being fooled, please_...but he was completely alone, rubbing his bruised mouth, feeling the dull ache in his shoulders after being tied tightly for so long. Angry and helpless.

And…he turned, staring into the unrelenting darkness of the cell, spine pressed straight and hard against the door…and _frightened._

He searched the cell in a disoriented panic, clawing desperately at anything that looked like it might help, but the walls were stone, and the door was solid, and the bars were iron, and he sank onto the bare mattress. He was trembling, he realized, his hands shaking. He wrapped his cloak against the chill that had settled into his bones and stared at the water puddling around his boots—rainwater from the surface, finding imperceptibly small channels through the earth to soak his cell. Glowing salamanders, the primary light source in the room, chirped softly to each other and scampered through the puddles, their tails swishing back and forth.

He coughed sharply, and his fingers brushed across his suddenly aching throat, wondering if he was going to catch a cold. If he were home, Royal Guard Number Three would plonk a steaming mug of tea in front of him and probably tell him off (in a respectful “you’re the king and I’m just a guard” sort of way) for going out in the rain without an umbrella.

Or without a guard.

Or a weapon.

Or even just enough _attention_ and _wherewithal_ to defend himself from a kidnapping scheme.

_Shining stars, what am I going to do?_

“Settling in, I see?” said a voice outside the door.

Graham’s head snapped up, and he scrambled to the door. “ _Manny?”_

“I thought your speech to the goblin king was quite passionate,” Manny said. “Shame he couldn’t understand a word of it. Neither could I, to be honest. Perhaps you should practice your proclamations more?”

“You can’t do this to me!”

“You know, I rather think I can. In fact, I think I already did.” Manny examined his hands, as though he could inspect his fingernails through his armor. “It worked out rather well all around, I thought. I can’t stay long. I do have things to do, topside. Making sure your guards search in just the right places, find all the right clues I’ve so carefully made for them. I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable. All accommodations pleasant enough? Fit for a king?” He eyed the small, damp, dark cell critically. “Aaah, it seems they gave you the wrong suite. I was hoping for something quite a bit... _smaller._ Seeing as you’re a king of the people, I didn’t want you to feel spoiled.” He paused, giving Graham his full attention this time, and added with clear irritation, “And I _thought_ I requested new royal jewelry to be given as a welcoming gift. Some lovely iron bracelets I’d picked out _just_ for you. But I suppose this will do well enough. It won’t matter in the end, will it?”

Graham swallowed hard, shifting back from the door.

But...but if Manny’s orders hadn’t been followed exactly...maybe that meant the goblins weren’t fully under his command after all. Maybe... He shoved the idea away, to study later, when he was alone, when he could think, when he could plan.

Manny glanced up the hall. “I do suppose I should check on everyone else, too. Can’t occupy all your time, it wouldn’t be fair for a courtier to do that.”

“Everyone else?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s not important, not for you, not now.” Manny tapped the padlock on the door once, apparently considering, and then with a theatrical gesture, said, “But I’ll tell you anyway. Would hate to leave you in the dark. You had help. And not just from me—and I _carried_ your sorry self through that knight contest. But. Your friends from the town square? A pie, a pumpkin, a dagger. Well, it didn’t seem fair to leave them out, after all they’d done for the kingdom. For you.”

“Wait, no, you can’t mean—”

“I would have liked to have Kyle and Larry too, after all that they did in the Duel of Wits, and those idiots Numbers One and Two for supporting them, but it’s so much harder to take guards than it is to take bakers. You know how it is. Weapons to hand, and they move in pairs generally, and are better trained to fight than alchemists. Especially that moron Number One. But maybe after I’m crowned I can still have a little fun after all.”

“B-bakers…” Graham sank against the stone in the middle of the cell that acted as a table. He fought back the tremor in his voice. “You didn’t. You wouldn’t. The villagers did nothing to you. This is between you and me, and only us, not them!”

Manny shrugged. “I disagree. And besides, your opinions…well, they don’t matter anymore, do they? And, hey, you wanna know the funniest thing? Guards would be hard to take. The villagers were hard to take. But you? The one they should all be trying to protect? The king himself? _Easy._ And what does that say about you? What does that say about your _worth?_ How much they even care?”

He shook the bars, testing the door’s strength, and seemed satisfied by what he felt. “By your leave, Your Majesty, I shall see myself out now. Do enjoy yourself. You’ve earned this vacation.” And then he was gone, but Graham could hear his ringing laughter long after he’d vanished into the shadows.

* * *

Boredom was the undoing, in the end.

Not Graham’s boredom, although the silent sucking emptiness of the cell was… _horrible_. Endless and chilling and quiet and awful. No, it was the goblin’s boredom, and their impatience, and their disinterest in doing chores. Apparently, they forgot why Graham was locked away, because they hauled him out one evening and forced him to start cleaning. A veritable Cinderella, he thought, clutching the rag they’d flung in his face, royalty cleaning up the ashes.

But then he found the actual Cinderella in the prison tunnels, and things started to change.

Okay, she wasn’t actually Cinderella, story book princess come to life. It was a goblin, wearing a scrappy costume, sweeping some corridor endlessly, while another pack of goblins reenacted the shoe-trying scene (although, luckily, no one had their toes cut off during the performance like the story had it).

Graham watched their play, watched them repeat the same steps endlessly if someone made a mistake or they didn’t like a line read, or anything that broke the natural flow of the story they were reenacting. He found the Princess and the Pea’s tower of mattresses. He found a romantic goblin searching for a true Frog Prince.

He found story tellers.

He remembered the riverbank. He’d been entirely ignored while they practiced acting out his capture. Again and again they had pounced each other, working out the timing. The timing they would use when they retold the tale.

Stories ruled their steps. Their every decision was based around a story. They liked the structure, the shape, the excitement, the action, the defined rules and requirements and the fun chance to be someone else for a while.

He wondered what sort of new stories they might like to hear.

Maybe even one about a cruel little knight who would go to any costs to bring down his enemies, even if his enemies had done nothing wrong. A villain, dressed all in black, who would do anything to unfairly win, even kidnap, perhaps even murder. That wasn’t how the stories were supposed to end. A story’s simple structure meant the villain had to get their comeuppance. And if he could get the villain to tell the story himself, say, during one of those times when he came to the cell door to brag, if Graham convinced a goblin or two to listen in, to hear the injustice and be ready to defend the story….

If he could do all that, then the story, his prospects and future, could change.


	10. Scarred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill: "Old wounds flaring up again + needing help with a usually simple task" with Graham and the guards.
> 
> I internalized a certain headcanon about ch5 Graham's hands [from Midorilied a long time ago](https://midorilied.tumblr.com/post/153114498929/i-thought-itd-be-cool-if-the-elixir-scarred).

“Are you back again? We can’t keep you out of this castle with a stick,” Royal Guard Number Three said. “You’re _retired_. Go home. We’ve got this.”

“I’m sure,” No1 said drily. He kicked the mud off his boots to avoid tracking in anything on the plush red carpet lining the entrance hall. “And I’m sure you’ve done the morning uniform muster and done the first of the month stable inventory and submitted the guards’ annual promotion evaluation already and everything.”

“Um. It’s. That’s. Getting done,” No3 said, sheepishly.

“Indeed. Proceed.” He wished he was wearing his old uniform helmet, just so he could hide his smile—his gray mustache was thick, but not quite thick enough. “I’m not here to judge how things have been going. Just here to see the King.”

“I believe he’s in his office,” No3 said, and saluted sharply. “Do you need an escort or an announcement or anything?”

“I thought you said I was retired. You needn’t salute me.”

“Oh. Um. Habit, Sir. Sorry. Uh. Sir. No. I mean. Respectable to still call you Sir even as a civilian, right?”

“Perhaps you should go work on that uniform muster. No, I don’t need an escort. I suspect I already know the way.”

“Of course, Sir.” She saluted again, and No1 headed off.

He wouldn’t have expected it, but he should have: retirement was hideously dull. Lately, he spent more time in the castle than he did in his quiet little house in Daventry fields. Just popping in, making sure everyone was doing well, all that. Number Two, Kyle, and Larry had retired about the same time he did, leaving Numbers Three and Four to tend to the growing crop of guards.

He’d always meant for her to take on his job. He’d been guiding her, training her, raising her into becoming commander of the Daventry Royal Guard. But what with one thing and another, retirement was always further and further from his mind with every passing year. Until the day he looked at himself in the mirror before pulling on his helmet and saw the lines and the age and suddenly felt _tired_. He’d put in his notice that day.

He wondered when his number would be reassigned. No3 ought to take it as the new commander, but she insisted on keeping her original title for now, for familiarities’ sake (he suspected it had more to do with the fact that King seemed too distracted these days and might not remember a change like that). Maybe she thought No1 would want his old office back, would come back to work in the castle until the day he couldn’t make his weary feet walk across the moat bridge. But he wasn’t technically No1 anymore. He was just Ken.

And Ken was _incredibly bored._

He walked the halls slowly, familiar tread beneath his worn boots. He knew every uneven tile, every scratch on the wall, every drafty corner. He could walk this route blindfolded, in his sleep, in pitch darkness, whatever. And actually had done so in the past. Several times. Each. Things could get weird around here.

How could he just sit in that empty, quiet, lonely little house and watch sunlight grow and shrink across the wall when the castle was so full of life and excitement and joy, constantly fueled by ridiculously minded Cracker antics?

Well. Perhaps not that much joy today, he realized. Graham’s office door was open, and he could see the king sitting at his desk. But he was slumped forward, his shoulders trembling like he was gasping silently for breath. The inkwell had fallen over, and was dripping all across the table and onto the carpet, drip by drip by terrible drip.

No1 cautiously knocked on the open door and coughed to announce his presence, to give the king a second to compose himself. Graham lifted his head, and his eyes were glassy and...and Graham hastily ducked his head again, swiping at his cheeks, which just made everything worse because the ink was all over his hands and was getting in his beard and streaking across his face like shadows of exhaustion.

“Your Majesty.”

“Number One...er, Ken.”

“Sire, what’s happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Sire."

“No, nothing’s...” Graham worried the end of his beard with his ink-stained fingers, and then winced. Because he realized ink was staining his beard, or was something else wrong? “I...” He looked at the soppy papers in front of him, and tried to right the tipped inkwell, and his fingers couldn’t grasp it, and it rolled away and bounced off the floor, leaving a spray of ink behind, and Graham sank lower and lower in his chair, staring at his hands. “I can’t,” he said.

“Sire, is there something I can do? Would you like me to fetch Queen Valanice?”

“No, no, please. Don’t. I don’t want her to see...could you help me?”

Ken righted the inkwell, and cast about for something to mop up the spilled ink, but there was nothing to use other than Graham’s cloak, which he would not use, and that ratty blue blanket Acorn had knitted...what, fifty years ago? _Definitely_ wouldn’t touch that. Well. He withdrew his kerchief from his pocket and dropped it in the puddle, where it hardly helped at all but floated, slowly absorbing a little bit of the ink and turning from white to black.

“Is that the lavender inspection order?” he asked, looking at the splotched and stained sheets.

“It was meant to be.” He didn’t sound angry. Just...lost. They were silent, and the room was still, and there was an unfriendly bitterness and fear that pressed against them. Then, after a while, Graham murmured, “Do you remember King Edward?”

Ken nodded warily. In fact, the little scene before him dug its claws into his chest and made him remember _exactly_ what Edward’s final months had been like. Cold, clumsy, sick. Dying. His beard frayed and frizzy, his eyes tired and sad, his trembling hands twisted and useless and unable to grip a sword, a spoon, a pen.

Graham’s own hands were in tight fists, ink dripping down his wrists onto his bracers, but, ever so slowly, slowly, he uncurled his fingers. His palms were free of black ink—but they had a spiderweb of white scars that Number One had never seen before running across them. He stepped backward instinctively, mouth suddenly dry. It looked like someone had been at Graham’s hands with a knife, had torn deep, and left these horrible lines behind. But...more than that, they had an almost liquid shape to them, like the impact running water would leave if running water were somehow sharp enough to leave scars behind. And when they caught the light at just the right angle, they looked…almost like a shimmering sort of green….

“Edward’s final months are all people easily recall,” Graham said. “He did so many good things for the kingdom. He was Edward the Benevolent. But memories are short. We forget what he did and remember what he lost. Who he was in the end, weak and broken, when people didn’t want his leadership anymore, wanted to live without him. I don’t want people to remember me like that. Remember my weakness. I don’t...I don’t want that to be my legacy. But I’m.... Ken, I’m _frightened_ that people will only see this.” He gestured at the ink staining the desk, ruining the carpet. “They won’t...remember me as I was. Just me as I am. Now. And I’m...I can’t...I _hate this.”_ He sank lower and lower, his hands on the tabletop, scars facing the ceiling.

“Graham...? What is this? What happened to you?”

“Do you remember?”

“Remember what?”

“When I broke my arm, remember? It wasn’t that long ago. A couple years by now, I suppose. You hadn’t retired yet. Mordack...Mordon, he helped me home. We had saved the kingdom, stopped Manannan for the last time. But. I didn’t tell anyone what had happened, not fully. I lost that fight.”

“That was obvious enough, Sire. You had your arm in a sling. Hardly a resounding sign of victory.”

“No, not that. Although,” and he smiled ever so slightly, his eyes crinkling at the edges and almost making the room’s gloomy atmosphere ease for just an instant, “I lost that fight, too. But. Before that. I played Manny in a Duel of Wits. Hardly a duel. A game of chance, and a kingdom to win or lose between us. Foolish. I never should have played, but there wasn’t a choice. There wasn’t anything else I could do.

“Once upon a time, there was a rare poison that was capable of destroying someone from the inside out. Not just someone. It could destroy anything. A country, even, in the right circumstances. A kingdom could be cursed with it, wilt and turn to ashes and darkness instead of life. The curse would pit people against each other, make them self-serving and greedy and cruel and arrogant and manipulative, to the point where the kingdom would rip itself apart. That’s how it could curse a kingdom.

“For a human, it was much more mundane. If consumed, the body would weaken over the years, slowly, slowly, until it crumbled and broke. A rare, slow poison, where a single dose would destroy unquestioningly, cruelly, stripping away everything bit by bit. There was no cure. _Is_ no cure. There were two identical cups before us. One was safe. One was full of that poison.

“We simply had to choose which one to drink. An easy game of chance. With too much bet upon it. But I chose correctly. I chose correctly, I chose the safe cup, and I still lost. Manny wouldn’t accept my victory—of course not. He took the poison now that he knew where it was, and he turned it against the kingdom. He was going to curse Daventry with it. And I...I reached out, and I caught it. In my own hands.” He held his hands out to his former captain, showed the twisting curling scars.

“Only Valanice has seen these, really seen them. I’ve hidden them from everyone else. It’s not hard. Just...wear bracers, keep your hands close. People don’t see what they don’t want to see, and if they do notice, it’s easy to dismiss.

“But hiding it doesn’t stop it. It’s begun its work. Slowly. So, so slowly. Small things have been getting harder. It’s only going to get worse.

“And, worse than the poison...it is going to destroy my legacy, Ken. I saw what happened to Edward. That’s going to happen to me. That’s all people are going to remember. This.” He stared at the ink. The handkerchief was now completely black, but the puddle was no smaller. “I feel so _useless._ This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.”

“Your Majesty, I...”

Graham pushed his chair back, stood. He wobbled and Ken feared he would fall. How had he not seen this before?

“I’m sorry,” Graham said, and he tried to force lightness into the words, tried to spin the story back the way he wanted. “I shouldn’t have said all that. I shouldn’t have put all that on you. Let's...um. How’s retirement?”

“Sire, don’t change the subject. Please.”

“I shouldn’t have brought it up, not to anyone. It’s just the pointless whining of a tired old man.” Graham said, eyes downcast, watching their reflections in the ink puddles. “I know you’re retired. I shouldn’t try to put my burdens on you.”

“If I may, Sire. Graham. I would like to reapply to rejoin the castle staff.”

Graham looked up, startled. “I’m sorry?”

“I hereby tender my application to rejoin the castle staff. As your personal assistant. I believe my prior experience speaks for itself. However, if needed, I shall scrounge up a paper resume. I’m sure I’ve got one shoved in a desk somewhere. I can even write up a new one here and now, if you’ll permit me temporary use of your desk.”

“Ken, you’re older than _I_ am.”

“Sire, are you trying to suggest senior citizens cannot hold jobs?”

Graham blinked, then started laughing. He sank against the desk, smearing ink all over. “You can’t,” he said, after a second. “You’ve got your own life, and well deserved at that. You can’t tend a sorry old man who’s falling to pieces as we stand here.”

“I see no ‘sorry old man,’” Ken said sharply. “I see a magnificent king who sacrificed _everything he had_ to save his people, and who still has so much life and heart in him. Only someone who truly loved his people would care so much about the legacy he was leaving behind, about what he was doing for them and how they would perceive it.”

He picked up the discarded pen, considered, and then scrawled a looping “Approved” across the bottom of the soggy paperwork. “I shall be your hands in matters of state. You can still press your signet ring into the sealing wax, I presume? That shall be enough to make it official, according to addendum 6,890.458.8, subclause c.”

“That addendum doesn’t exist.”

“You’re going to question _my_ knowledge of addenda?”

“But. You retired. You earned everything beyond this castle.”

“Perhaps so. But everything I want is _inside_ this castle. And I shall have it. After all these years, you should have realized: I’m afraid I’m as stubborn as you are, Graham. Now. What shall we work on first? After we clean up this ink, of course.”


End file.
